


Guilty Conscience

by Darksidekelz



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 14:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8252482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darksidekelz/pseuds/Darksidekelz
Summary: Wing thinks himself a hero - compassionate, virtuous, perfect.  But when he takes it upon himself to reform one lost Decepticon, he beings to feel something he'd never thought himself capable of: doubt.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Essentially the Drift miniseries from Wing's perspective. I tried to make it canon-compliant to the best of my ability, but do forgive any minor flubs. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Wing had always had a little rebellious streak.  It had gotten him into trouble more times than he could count.  And yet, though it condemned him on a weekly basis, it was also his second most valuable trait, after his compassion.  After all, it fueled him, gave him the drive to do what was right, even when the rest of the world espoused the virtues of apathy. 

He'd shunned the war from the beginning.  Those who had suffered, those he was inclined to protect, had gone mad with newfound power, and the new Autobots could never hope to fix a system already built on wickedness and corruption.  In the fight of evil vs. evil, nobody won.  And so, he had been among those who fled with Dai Atlas, to build a utopian city on some far-off planet, and to stay well away from the war that would destroy their world.

And a utopia it was.  No one suffered in the Crystal City.  No one was forgotten, no one was shunned. 

Within the handful of mechs that lived there, at least. 

Those who resided beyond its walls however, were afforded no compassion, and _that_ was something Wing could not accept.

Wing had received more admonishments than commendations, had been put under house arrest, had gone toe-to-toe with Dai Atlas time and again.  By this point, the only thing that saved him from expulsion was his membership in the Circle of Light.  One could not be removed from such an elite group so easily, not without upsetting the foundation of their very society.  So Wing stayed.  He butted heads with his compatriots every step of the way, but he was never removed, and he never chose to remove himself, because when it came down to it, the Crystal City was his home, and as much as he wanted to help others, he was afraid of the consequences of leaving.

That being said, no amount of punishment could keep him apathetic.  When a ring of slavers arrived on their planet, Wing saw an opportunity to do something right.  And so, he swaddled himself in ragged clothing, to appear as an organic (it would be disastrous if the slavers realized there were Cybertronians on this planet), and stepped out into the wider world to do some good.

The last thing he'd been expecting to find was another Cybertronian.

He called himself Drift – he was brash, reckless, and overflowing with the kind of anger that was deep-rooted and omnipresent.  Wing didn't need to see the mech's badge to know that he was a Decepticon.  Still, personal philosophy did not allow him to show prejudice, and the mech was agreeable enough.  The two of them planned to take out the slavers together, and rescue their captives.  Then Drift could go on his way, unaware that it was a fellow Cybertronian he'd helped, and Dai Atlas would never find out that a Decepticon had been on their sanctuary planet.

Naturally, that was not the way things turned out.

Drift had gotten himself injured; it was all Wing could do to get him out in one piece.  But he was now faced with a new problem.  Drift's wounds were grave and the slavers were still nearby.  Outsiders were forbidden in the Crystal City, but if Wing left Drift on his own, either he would succumb to his injuries and die, or the slavers would get him. 

Wing was never one for following the rules anyway.

~~~

He knew from the beginning that Drift would be difficult; that was part of the fascination.  He didn't have to be a sage to see that the mech wore deep scars – most Decepticons did, and poor Drift was doing everything in his power to embrace his faction's ideology to a tee.  What he lacked in physical power, he more than made up for in sheer rage and brutality.  But Wing saw more than what lay on the surface.  Somewhere beyond the cocky posturing and smug attitude, was a mech – terrified and hurting, and trying so, _so_ hard to find his place in the universe.

And Wing was going to help him.

Drift didn't need the Decepticons.  He didn't need the violence and the self-inflicted pain and isolation that came with it.  He could be wonderful – he _would_ be.  All he needed was to be shown the right way, to be taught compassion and tenderness.  And Wing knew that he would be the one to teach him – the one to _save_ him.  This was his new reason for being.

Not that the path would be an easy one.

He already expected that Drift would fight him at every turn – it was in his nature, after all.  But Drift wasn't his only problem.  Dai Atlas, supreme ruler of the New Crystal City had _not_ been pleased to find out that Wing had brought a Decepticon back home with him.

"If he betrays us, if he destroys what we have here, the burden will be yours and yours _alone._ "

The utter hypocrisy of it all was revolting.  They had fled from the factions, had spent eons preaching against them, and now here their leader was, outwardly condemning a mech in need because he was a 'Decepticon.' 

Factions _didn't_ matter.  Wing helped the helpless, and he wasn't going to let anything so petty stand in his way.  He'd argued for the stranger, vouched for him, promised with the utmost certainty that Drift would not betray them.  And he wouldn't.  Because he had Wing now, to show him a better way.  Why would Drift want to return to the war and strife and suffering, when he could have the peace and freedom offered to him by the Crystal City? 

He couldn't allow the mech to be sent back to the slavers, but nor could he risk sending him back into the world, only to find a fleet of Decepticons knocking on their door a few months down the line.  Wing needed Drift to turn his life around just as much as Drift needed it.  He wasn't going to like it, but it was for his own good anyway.    

Currently, the mech in question was leaning against the wall to the great hall, right where Wing had left him, which was, in all honesty, a little surprising.  But it was also a good sign.  Drift could have made an escape attempt.  He wouldn't have gotten far, but he could have tried.

"Trouble in paradise?" he asked, derisive.  Wing allowed the jeer to slide.  He was not easily riled up.

"Follow me," was his curt reply.

And so Drift did.  Wing led him through the gleaming streets and clean alleyways, ignoring Drift's questions all the while.  Curiosity kept him in line, as much as he liked to pretend that he had the power to get away.  Finally, they arrived at Wing's abode, a modest dwelling, one room, furnished only with a recharge slab, an energon case, a stand for his sword, and some organic plant the last bunch of slavers had left behind.  Wing thought that it breathed a bit of life into the otherwise boring room.

Drift was busy taking in the sights with the smallest bit of wonder in his usually-guarded optics.  Wing reveled in the beautiful sight for but a moment, before hardening his own expression.  It was time to get started – Mr. Nice Wing had to take a nap.

"What does this stand for?" he asked, indicating the symbol on Drift's chest.  It wasn't a completely sincere question.  He knew full well what it stood for – it was one of the most feared symbols in the galaxy, after all.  The Autobots weren't without sin, but Wing wouldn't pretend that it wasn't the Decepticons that earned their race most of the hate that was flung their way.  And with billions upon billions of organic lifeforms slaughtered by their hand, that hate was fully-justified.  The Decepticon symbol meant fear, hatred, and above all else, a thirst for absolute power.  Still, he was curious to hear Drift's answer.

"It's the symbol of the Decepticons," Drift said, rolling his optics.  "You know what –"

"What does it _mean_?"

Drift raised an optic ridge, but ultimately decided to humor Wing.  He folded his arms, and with a weary tone , said, "Strength, power, conviction . . ." 

"Superiority?" Wing finished.  "So, you're the best then – the strongest – and because of that you should rule?"

"Yes."  The lighthearted nature Drift had maintained moments before had vanished.  He sensed the challenge in Wing's words, and predictably rose to it.

"Prove it.  No guns.  No swords."  And here was the plan.  As Wing anticipated, Drift was a proud warrior.  But he was also weak, dependent on the power provided by manufactured weapons.  Take those away and – well, he'd seen first-hand how the poor mech had fared against the slavers.  Drift wouldn't take defeat easily.  He would rise to Wing's challenge and, under the guise of improving his fighting skills, would turn his life around.  Wing felt particularly proud of himself for coming up with such a clever scheme.  "Prove it."

And so Drift did, or tried, at least.  He lunged with all his might, fire in his optics – hate – ready to tear Wing apart with blind rage alone.  But blind range could not match Wing's sheer skill.  He easily dodged the blow, and used Drift's momentum against him, to lay him flat on the ground.  "Prove it," he said again, aware of the mockery Drift would have perceived in it.

And so Drift tried again.  He punched, Wing blocked, countered, and laid him out flat again.  This time, Drift didn't bother getting up.

"We're going to do this _every_ day.  Every day, I'm going to give you a chance to prove me wrong.  If you beat me, you're free to walk out of here.  If you don't . . ."

"If I don't?" Drift repeated.  He was down, but the fire in his optics remained brilliant as ever.

"You're here forever."

~~~

It was as Wing had promised.  Every day, Drift challenged him, and every day Wing put Drift in his place.  It was a hard lesson that Drift needed to learn.  The mech was _not_ superior, and never would be – not so long as he held on to the darkness in his spark.  Wing could help him.  Wing could _save_ him.

Unfortunately, the plan seemed to be backfiring.  Rather than embrace his inner peace, Drift grew more angry with each passing day; his impotent rage lashed out on Wing's sparse furniture.  He was _mostly_ certain that Drift wouldn't vent his frustrations on actual mechs, but it was a chance that he didn't fancy taking at this early stage.  Drift would learn control soon enough.  In the meantime, he was confined to the house during his rages.

"You're too angry, Drift.  You lose sight of the greater picture that way," Wing tried to explain after yet another victory.  Drift did not move from where he'd fallen, only allowing his new blue glare to fall on Wing, optics filled with hateful promises of grievous bodily harm in the future.

"Let go of your hate.  You'll be better for it."

A low growl formed in Drift's throat, and he lunged again, to similar effect.  But this time, as he crawled back to his knees, wiping the energon from his lips, he had a few words to share with his teacher.

"Stop doing that."

Wing cocked his head.  "It's part of the training, Drift.  I'm not going to let you hit me.  You have to –"

"Not _that_ , you blithering idiot!" He scrambled to his feet, but dropped his gaze to the floor.  "Stop talking like you're better than me.  Stop talking so high and mighty!  It's obnoxious.  So what if you're all enlightened with your stupid sword and your precious city and your – your weak little morals?!  You're not better than me!  You're _not_ better than me!"  He lunged again, much to the same effect as last time, but Wing couldn't help but be thrown off by his words. 

"I never said I was better than you, Drift." 

_You have though.  You've been saying it all along._

Hastily, he shoved that thought aside.  Drift didn't understand yet, but he would.  They just had to train more; he'd get it soon enough.  "I'm only here to help make you into a better person."

"I never asked you to do that!" Drift snapped, but then, despite clearly wanting to say more, he cut himself off, threw his hands over his mouth, and cringed, a horrified look on his face.  What was _that_ about?

"Drift?"

Wing stepped closer, reached out a hand to check on the suddenly fearful mech, and that was Drift's cue to bolt, away from Wing and out the door.

He didn't make it far.  He was too bogged down by his injuries, and Wing was too skillful.  The poor little bundle of rage and sharp edges found himself tackled to the ground, and dragged back inside.  Thankfully, there were no onlookers.

"Drift, what's gotten into you?"

"Nothing!" he spat, hurling himself out of Wing's grip and scurrying across the room to hide in the corner, his eyes glowing with fire, hatred, the same bite he'd held before, as though he was actively trying to hide his previous moment of weakness.  "I'm done fighting you for today, leave me alone!"

"Drift . . ." Wing reached out a hand, wanting to sooth, to comfort.  But he could not bring himself to do so.  He knew that Drift was angry with him; that was to be expected.  Drift was a Decepticon, he had only known violence and anger up until this point. 

But surely he should understand by now that Wing only wanted to help him.  Why did he resist so?  Why did he cling to his unhealthy ways?  To the darkness that was inside of him?  Tranquility felt so much better.  In Drift's place, Wing would have embraced it eagerly.  And yet, the grumpy little mech remained stubborn.

Instead, Wing retracted the hand, his finials twitching in a heavy sigh.  "Very well.  I understand.  We'll call it here for today."

He didn't want to, of course, but what choice did he have?  He couldn't _force_ Drift to obey.  But for just a second, he wished that he could.

~~~

Drift spent most of his time these days thinking, brooding.  He was no more eager to embrace Wing's wisdom than he had been before, but he had stopped fighting it at least.  Wing supposed it was something he should've been thankful for.  Small steps. 

Every day, Drift fought Wing.  Every day, he got a little better.  And then, one day, a few months into his stay in the Crystal City, he finally managed to land a blow.  Wing, of course, was quick to knock him off his feet afterwards, but it was a marked improvement.

"Nice job," he said, smiling.  "I'm impressed."

Drift said nothing, but his aura was icy, angry as ever.  How disappointing.  "This is pointless," he snarled, more to himself than to Wing.

"Nonsense," Wing retorted.  "You're doing very well.  You made real progress today.  Soon you'll –"

Drift whirled around, fangs bared and optics ablaze.  "I'm not talking about your stupid little challenge!  I get it!  You're better at fighting than me.  That's not going to change!  I'm talking about what you're doing to _me_!"

 _'What you're doing to me_?'  Wing wanted to laugh.  What was Drift talking about?  Wing was helping him!  But he seemed upset about it for some reason.  If it was really upsetting to him, then it would be best to let him get it off his chest.  "I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean," Wing said, hoping to de-escalate the situation.

"This!" Drift cried out, gesturing around the room.  "You're trying to change me!  You're trying to make me weak, compassionate!  Like you!  I don't _want_ to be like you.  People like you get killed."  He cut himself off, vents flaring, armor rattling. 

Try as he might, Wing couldn't understand.  "There is nothing weak about compassion, Drift.  I'm trying to help you.  I'm giving you the opportunity for a second chance, a new life, where you don't have to be afraid of appearing weak.  Why won't you let me help you?"

Drift leapt to his feet, lunging at Wing full-speed.  "I never asked you to help me!"

Wing could only dodge as he always did, knocking Drift back to the floor.  But this time, Drift was right back up on his feet, screaming in frustration, throwing a flurry of punches that even Wing had difficulty keeping up with.

"I never asked to be like you!  I never asked to learn to fight like you!  I never asked for this new frame, or to be a part of Crystal City!  Stop acting like you know what's best for me!"

"Drift, I –"  He cut himself off.  There was no defense for the allegations, none that Drift would enjoy anyway.  The fact of the matter was, he _did_ know what was best for Drift.  The poor mech was so hurt, so broken, so lost.  He needed someone to show him the way.  Wing knew.  He had been there.  If only he could make Drift _see_.

"You've got it into your head that you can _save_ me, but did you ever stop to think that I like who I am?  I don't need a savior, and I don't need _you_!"  He lunged again, and Wing dodged easily.

"Drift, please.  Be reasonable," he protested.

"What does that even mean?" Drift snarled, picking himself up from the floor and flying and Wing.  But this time – _this time_ , he managed a hit.  It wasn't solid; he merely grazed the tip of Wing's turbine-guard, but it was the second time he'd made contact today.  He was getting better.  Wing leapt across the room, standing in awe as poor Drift, shoulders heaving and plating rattling tried to pull himself together.

"What does that mean?" he repeated, panted.  "Why are you doing this?  Why can't I – what's wrong with _me_?  What's – what's wrong with me?"  He fell to his knees, legs trembling too fiercely to hold him upright.  "What's wrong with me?  Why are you so much _better_?  I don't get it!  Why can't I – I'm the strongest!  I'm the fiercest!  I could serve at Megatron's right hand, if I cared enough to.  So why can't I beat _you_?!"  He slumped forward, helm resting on the ground.  "Why can't I win?  I'm strong.  Why can't I _win_?"

"Drift," Wing said, slowly drawing closer, an appeasing hand held out before him.  "Drift, that's enough.  Let's call it a day."

When Drift lunged again, Wing was ready for him, catching the speedster's arms mid-swing.  "I said 'enough.'  You can't fight if you don't have a clear head.  Take some time to calm down; we'll try again tomorrow."  And though he said that for Drift's benefit, he couldn't help but feel the words were in-part directed at himself.  He was finding his own mind a bit clouded by Drift's outburst.

What was he doing here?  Saving Drift, of course – from himself, from the hardships life had granted him.  But where, he wondered, was the morality in forcing salvation on someone?  Was Wing truly the savior he saw himself as?  Or was he just one more tyrant in Drift's long-suffering life.

He preferred not to dwell on the answer.

~~~

They continued their training as usual in the passing days, but Drift did not have a single outburst after that point.  He did not protest, barely griped or grimaced, he even managed to land another hit or two.  In a single encounter, Drift had been transformed from a dangerous spitfire, to introspective and thoughtful.  Wing was worried.

"You're leaving yourself too open, Drift.  You're not a large mech, you shouldn't fight as one.  Get in, then be prepared to get out.  One hit from the right opponent, and you won't be getting back up."

"Understood," said Drift.  He attacked again – another miss, but this time, he was able to dodge Wing's counter. It was impressive just how quickly he took Wing's words to heart.  Drift was a good student when he wanted to be.  But it was difficult to see what had changed.  The mech had made it quite clear that he knew full-well what Wing was trying to do, and he was not pleased.  And to an extent, Wing understood.

He knew that Drift was leading a life of misery – knew that the poor kid had been beaten down by hardship.  But the 'kid,' was also a battle-hardened soldier, and fully capable of making his own decisions.  And as far as he was concerned, he was in the right.  Long hours spent dwelling over his student's situation left Wing convinced that, he indeed _would_ have been  angry, were some stranger to come in and forcibly convert him to their way of thinking, regardless of whether or not said stranger was in the right; he couldn't blame Drift for doing so. 

But what then, was the solution?  He couldn't force Drift to righteousness, though the mech could certainly use a little.  But how did one save a mech that did not wish to be saved?

He spent days mulling over it.  Wing had always fancied himself a hero, but maybe there were no heroes.  A mech couldn't do good without doing a little bad along the way, right?  Every action had its own consequences – one life saved could leave others lost down the line.  A whole new world of moral relativism was unfurling all around him with Drift at its center, and honestly?  It was all a little overwhelming.

He needed someone to guide him. 

For once in his life, Wing set aside his own childish notions of good and evil, of right and wrong – his absolute certainty that he was virtuous, that he was the hero of the story, set aside his pride.  Perhaps Dai Atlas was not the stodgy old coward Wing had always believed him to be?  Perhaps he'd have something to say?

"I don't know what I'm doing," he confessed, head hung and wings drooping. 

Dai Atlas stood a stoic figure in the center of the dim room, an emotionless frown on his face, and no pity in his eyes.  "Indeed, it would seem that way."

The affirmation hurt, but it had been expected.  Wing was given no prompt to continue, but he did so anyway.  "I thought I was saving him.  And he's changing – for the better.  He's calmer now, more thoughtful.  But I don't feel justified.  I just feel like I've erased Drift and replaced him with someone more suitable to my tastes.  I feel dirty."

"You shouldn't," Dai Atlas said, expression unreadable as ever.

"It's not right!  Who's to say that my way is the right one?  Why should I have the right to change another bot against his will?"

Dai Atlas's frame heaved in a deep, resigned sigh, and he stepped nearer, stopping well within arm's reach.  But he made no move to touch Wing, to offer comfort.  For Dai Atlas, this was as warm as it got.  It got Wing's attention at least.  The might of that ancient presence compelled him to stand a little taller, a little prouder, even if he felt nothing but shame.

"You are an idealist, Wing.  It is admirable, even comforting – knowing that there are those who can still find hope in light of the horrors our race has witnessed – committed.  But the world is not an ideal place.  You cannot always afford to think of others, of their needs, of their happiness.  No matter what actions you take, you will find someone upset."

"I can't believe that," Wing said, more forcefully than he'd intended.  He'd already suspected as much, but he couldn't allow himself to accept it.  There _had_ to be a third option – a way to help everyone.   It came to him.  "The Crystal City proves it can be done!  We've created a utopia, where no one is forgotten!  Where no one suffers, no one is left behind!  It _is_ possible to help everyone!"  His fists clenched, as though clinging onto the sanctity of this idea.  But Dai Atlas shook his head.

"This city is a utopia, only because we are all bots of like minds and similar needs.  But it exists at the cost of Autobot and Decepticon alike.  Drift said it himself – we could help.  But we do not.  We remain isolated for our own sake – because it is what _we_ need."

It had been stupid to hope.  Wing hung his head, releasing his grip on the notion that he _could_ help everyone.

"It is hard for you to accept.  You've put our city at risk in the past, because you wanted to help people.  But you can only help so many."

"Then what do you do?"

"You focus on helping yourself.  You can justify it as the 'greater good,' if that is what pleases you, but in the end that's what it comes down to.  I fled Cybertron with the Circle of Light, because that was what I felt was best for me, and for those I cared about."

"But what about Drift?"

"What about Drift?" Dai Atlas echoed.

"How am I helping myself by hurting _him_?  I don't feel good about it – I don't feel heroic or just.  All I feel is monstrous."

Dai Atlas stepped away, folding his arms and closing himself off.  Had Wing said the wrong thing?  "I am sorry you feel that way.  Ultimately, Drift is your responsibility – I told you that going in.  What you do with him is ultimately up to you.  You can keep him on the path to righteousness, help him get away from his aggressive tendencies, the mistrust and need to keep up the constant guard that life as a Decepticon would lead him to, or you can allow him to remain himself, if that is what you need to do.

"However, it may behoove you to ask Drift what _he_ wants, if it's a guilty conscience you're battling.  If he has become amenable as you say, then perhaps he's found that he likes our way better."

Maybe Drift _did_ like the new him better, but that did nothing to ease Wing's guilt.  Dai Atlas was wise, yes, but his cynicism had never meshed well with Wing's need to make the universe a better place.  It had been foolish to think he could start now. 

Of course, he could always follow up on the advice and ask Drift.

"Drift," Wing said that night, lying on his recharge slab and staring at the sterile, black ceiling above.  Drift stirred from his ball in the corner.  Wing had offered him the recharge slab on his first night, but Drift had vehemently declined.  Given how peacefully he slept curled up like that, Wing was left with the sense that he'd spent most of his life sleeping on the ground.  It made him pity the mech all the more.

"Hmm?"

"You told me before that you didn't want to change, that you didn't want to be more like me.  Do you still feel that way?"

Drift's lack of an answer did little to ease his mind.

~~~

The next night, Drift ran away.  He should have expected as much. 

They had sparred again, but Drift's movements had been sluggish, blatant – as though he were distracted.  Wing had beaten him easily, but then, in a move that he'd never expected, Drift had opened up to him.  He had spoken of his time on the streets, with Gasket, with Megatron, the hardships of his old life, his philosophies, his values.  They'd been together for nearly a year now, but Wing had never felt so close to Drift as he did in that moment.

"This city holds everything you ever wanted.  Your spark might have been in the right place, but somewhere along the line, you lost your way.  Megatron used you, all of you.  But unlike the rest, you've got a second chance."  And for the first time in a long while, Wing actually believed his own words.  He hadn't erased Drift, he was giving him a 'second chance!'

Then they'd received the message.

It  had been in Decepticon code; Drift had said he couldn't translate, but evidently he'd been lying.  Wing had suspected such a thing might occur, but he had truly hoped otherwise.  Drift had made a drastic transformation from that violent, cocky mech he'd first encountered all that time ago.  He was thoughtful, serene, Wing even thought he caught a glimpse of a smile the other day. 

Despite Wing's own misgivings, and Drift's refusal to admit as much, the mech genuinely seemed to appreciate life in the Crystal City.  How could he fall after so much time?  _Why_ would he choose to go back to the Decepticons?  Back to the misery of his old life?  Did he like the violence, the suffering, the turmoil so much?

But even more surprising than Drift's impromptu departure, was his subsequent return.

"Where have you been?!  What's going on?!  I can't believe you'd sneak out like that!"

Drift spared Wing the barest glance of acknowledgement.  He was neither angry, nor upset when he said, "I'm a Decepticon, Wing, remember?"

"I thought you'd realize going out there could get you killed.  I thought that we . . . I thought that you wouldn't try."  He paused, searching for more to say in light of Drift's silence.  "It was that message, wasn't it?"

Drift didn't bother answering the question, instead offering one of his own.  "You stand against the Knights' laws.  You're one of them, but you're different.  Why do you do it?  Why do you break their rules?"

Why indeed?  Drift really had changed in his time here.  The brutal Decepticon warrior Wing had first met would not have picked up on such nuance, and if he had, he wouldn't have cared.  But here Drift was, asking Wing perhaps the one thing he needed to hear, to remind him of who he was, and why he did the things he did.

"I told you when we first met, helping another is the highest cause one can aspire to.  I do it because I think it's right."

And then, Drift had left, racing off in the direction of the Crystal City without so much as a goodbye.  Off to make the biggest decision of his life.

~~~

_"Because I've found something worth fighting for.  Because it's the right thing to do.  Because I want what you have.  It's what I've always wanted."_

The words lingered in Wing's head, long after they'd been said.  They should have made him happy, they should have granted him the validation he sought, and yet, he could only feel bitter.  He'd shown Drift a better life, given him the gift of happiness and worth, but all he could hear in his mind was an angry, accusative voice: 

_I never asked to be like you!  I never asked to learn to fight like you!  I never asked for this new frame, or to be a part of Crystal City!  Stop acting like you know what's best for me!_

He had to clear the thought.  They were going into battle, probably wouldn't make it.  He couldn't afford to have his mind clouded by doubt.  He was _Wing_ – confident savior, friend to the weak, a fraggin' hero!  He needed his old confidence back.  Or maybe, what he needed was absolution.

He sought out Drift, who was found just outside the infirmary, admiring his new frame upgrade, the sweet scent of freshly-polished armor lingering about him.  At least they'd die looking good. 

"Wing," he greeted, sensing Wing's presence before even catching his eye.  Wing had taught him well. 

"How are you feeling?" Wing asked, forcing a smile to his face.

Drift returned the expression, though his smile was genuine.  "Good.  Better than I've felt ever before.  I feel like I can take on the world!  Like I can do anything – I've got something worth fighting for, and I'm not going to lose it!"

"That's great."  That was all it took for Drift to see through his awkwardly maintained veneer.

"What about you, Wing?  You're looking a little grey."

Wing wanted to tell the truth.  He wanted to share with Drift exactly what was on his mind.  But what difference would it make?  Drift was happy with who he'd become; he'd said it himself.  Shouldn't Wing respect the mech's opinion enough to accept that as fact?  Wasn't that what this was all about? 

But could happiness obtained through dubious means be considered true happiness? 

Who cared?!  He wasn't going to take anything else away from Drift, least of all before such an important battle.

"Nerves, I guess.  It's been awhile since I've been in a big fight is all."  The look in Drift's optic told Wing that he did not buy it for a second.

"Is this about what you asked me the other night?  About wanting to change?"

Wing's eyes softened.  Drift really _had_ acquired perceptive.  But there was nothing he could say to answer the question.  Affirming would upset Drift, denying would make him suspicious.  There was no winning here.  "You've become a great mech," he settled on.

It seemed that Drift didn't quite buy the compliment, but he didn't argue it.  "I have you to thank for it."

"I'm flattered."

"I'm serious, Wing."  His mouth twisted down into a frown.  "When I first came to you, I hated who I was.  I've _always_ hated myself.  I was angry.  I was spiteful.  I wanted to – to I don't know, take it out on the rest of the world, I guess.  I – I just, I mean, I _thought_ that was what I wanted.  And when you came in and told me I couldn't have that, I was really angry, and I won't pretend that this 'warrior of justice, protector of the weak' thing feels quite right . . .

"But I've never before felt such a strong sense of purpose before.  Pit, I've never felt so powerful, period.  You taught me to fight better, to think better – to think about, well others, I guess.  And – heh, I mean, it's weird to say it, but I actually want to protect you, and the Crystal City, and – well, _all_ of it.  I've never been so happy in my life!  If I could, I'd stay here forever, live the kind of life you guys do."  He stepped closer, taking Wing's hand in his own, and offering it a reaffirming squeeze.  And Wing, wise, heroic Wing, who knew better than the rest, who had all the answers, found himself feeling young and vulnerable, and maybe even a little flustered.  Beauty was easy to grow numb to in the eternal perfection of the Crystal City, but seeing Drift's genuine smile?  It was surely the most beautiful thing he'd ever witnessed.

"If we die here today, then I want you to know, I'm glad I met you.  Thank you.  For everything."  And then he released Wing's hand, his optics sheepish and shy.  Wing hadn't heard Axe's call, but the next thing he knew, Drift was scurrying off to go speak with him, leaving Wing on his own to mull over what had just happened.

Drift's gratitude was genuine; there was no denying that.  If he did indeed survive the upcoming battle, he'd be happier, healthier, able to live a life dedicated to helping others, something his selfish old self never would have dreamed of doing.  He had a bright future ahead of him – _any_ future ahead of him, filled with love, compassion, freedom.  There was no shame in that.  _There was no shame in that._  

Wing had done well.  He had taken this mech, vulnerable and angry and hurting, and he had molded him into a near perfect replica of himself – same goals, same fighting style, they nearly even had the same frame!  And this was _a good thing_!  Because Wing was a good mech, because Wing loved the mech he was, and Drift, as he had been, was murderous and self-loathing.  He had reformed a killer!  Had likely saved some lives down the line in doing so!  He should be lauded.

He did not regret the way that Drift had turned out.  He did not regret the happiness that Drift had found, or his role as savior to a mech who had so desperately needed salvation.  What he regretted, was the fact that he hadn't been able to do so and abide by his own morals at the same time.  He could have been better.  He could have been perfect.  He could have . . .

And those were his thoughts as he walked off to the battle that could be his last.

_I never was perfect._


End file.
